I live in the town that hides at dusk.
This is a ritual repeated daily,
and has been for as long as I can remember.
Ever since I was a little girl, young and small and full of fear, my
family has locked our door, shuttered our windows, brandished our weapons, and
lit our candles, all before the day has expired.
Tonight is no different.
As the sun begins to fall, and
the people retreat into their homes, I consider, for just one moment, what
might happen if I stepped outside after dark.
Then I remember the code.
Never look.
Never interfere.
And above all: never go outside at night.
They are simple enough rules to
follow, as upon each window there is a shutter, and within each home many
locks. Remaining inside is often the
most difficult task, however, because the being that stalks our lands is not of
this earth, and has a way of seducing the weak-minded into leaving their
dwellings.
I have never seen it. My mother
has never seen it, nor my father. My brother, though—he saw it, once, when he
was just a child. When he dared to the crack the door to look outside.
It changed him.
Peter doesn’t talk anymore. He
may look toward the window at night, and he may follow my father and his
orders, but he no longer speaks of the things that little boys do.
On this early evening, so dull
and dreary but filled with fright, my mother looks out the window at the
crimson sunset and watches my father and little brother as they tend to the
final chores of the day.
“Mother,” I say, lifting my eyes
to watch her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Sabrina,” my mother
replies. “Everything is fine.”
I wrap my fingers around my
simple dress and stare into the distance—where, beyond the long road, and the
village that borders it, the valley
extends below the high mountain. I wonder, briefly, if there is life beyond
this nightly terror, but realize that is probably not the case.
Standing here, in this house,
which in theory should be so safe and sound and feel like a home, I feel
nothing but despair. It is an emotion I have grown accustomed to throughout my
life.
The sky darkens.
The men and boys come in.
My father enters the home, with
Peter shortly after him. He kisses my mother on the cheek, then turns to look
at me and says, “Sabrina.”
“Yes, Father?” I reply.
“Fetch the matches.”
Though I move to do as asked, the
shift in sunlight causes me to turn my head toward the window as I take the box
of matches in hand.
For a brief moment, I stare with
a mixture of awe and horror.
Then the window is shuttered, and
my trance is broken.
I begin lighting the candles soon
after.
And thus begins another night.
There is little I can say to
describe how these nights are. Cold, morose, filled with tension and fear, it
is always my mother whose face is uneasy, and my father whose eyes are
unconcerned. Given that this has occurred for as long as I both I, and he, can
remember, we rise during the day and go to bed at night as if this is nothing
new. It is my mother, however, who is not as fortunate. She did not grow up in
this land, and has always feared the thing that walks the night.
But do I?
I ponder this thought as I light
the final candle, and as I set it down upon the fireplace mantle. Though a part
of me wants to believe that I am
scared of it, if only because of the influence it holds not only over my life,
but the lives of those in the village, enough knows that is not the case.
I am strong willed, I am quick to think. Good of heart, sound of mind.
They say the creature could not
sway the minds of the weak. But that does not mean that it does not try.
My father’s sigh from the dining
table causes me to avert my gaze from the fireplace. I trace his steps, one
after the other, as he walks to the rifle that is propped against the wall, and
watch him check it before he removes his shoes from his feet.
Peter tugs at my mother’s dress.
“It’s time for bed,” she says.
He tugs at her dress again.
“I said: it’s time for bed.”
The boy looks at her with his
wide eyes, but simply sighs before turning and sauntering to where he sleeps in
the corner of the room.
“Sabrina?” my mother asks. “Is
everything all right?”
“Just in thought,” I reply, and
blink to clear the haze over my vision.
“All right.” She turns her eyes
to my bed. “You should go, too. We know how these nights can be.”
“Yessum,” I reply.
In moments, I am drawing the
blankets over my body and lacing my fingers together.
I can barely begin my prayer when
the monster outside begins to bay.
Our father in Heaven, I think. Hallowed
be thy name. Your will be done. On Earth as it is in Heaven. Please keep my
family safe on this horrible night and deliver us safely from the creature that
dwells outside. Though it bids no harm to those who follow, its temptation is
great and wrought in sin. Amen.
“Amen,” I whisper.
My mother and father—who have
seemingly been reciting their own prayers—say “Amen” as well before tucking the
covers beneath their chins.
Though I want nothing more than
to sleep, I know its nightly summons will soon begin.
Come to me, it seems to say. Come
to me.
No, I think, though I wish to say
it rather than think it. I will not give in to the shadow of the light, that
walks in darkness, that bays at the moon as if it is carrion. I am strong.
But am I strong enough to face
the evil that walks our lands?
I consider this as the sound of
footsteps begin to echo outside. Loud, heavy, thudding with intent, and filled
with purpose—the creature, who comes to our village from a place beyond our
lands, scrapes along the outside of our home and makes the shutters on the
windows vibrate as its body presses against the glass.
Lord be with me.
“With us,” I whisper.
From the darkness of the home,
Peter begins to cry.
“Quiet, Peter,” my father says.
He cries again.
“I said—”
The creature outside stops
moving.
No, I think.
Surely it could not have heard
him, and if it had, would not bother us. Would it?
The creature begins to shift
along the house once ore.
The shutters bow.
My mother begins to cry. Why did I have to love him? her tears
seem to say. To live with him? To have
children with him?
Truth be told: I don’t know why
she didn’t pressure my father to move us away. On horseback, we could have made
ample progress. But my father—he is sentimental, and always claimed that the
road is too long, that the creature’s territory too vast.
Come to me, the voice whispers. Come
to me.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head.
“I won’t.”
“What’s wrong?” my mother asks.
“Sabrina? Who are you talking to?”
“No one,” I reply. “I’m—I’m not
talking to anyone.”
“Oh, dear lord,” my mother says.
“It speaks to her, Robert. Oh, why oh why did you have to keep us here?”
“You know why,” my father says.
“No, Robert. I don’t.”
I reach up to press my hand over
my ears as my mother’s crying intensifies.
Ignore the beast, I tell myself. Ignore the beast and you will be free.
For a moment, there is nothing
but silence.
Then, I hear it speak again.
Come to me, it says.
Then, as if I have no will of my
own, I move my hand to remove the covers from my person.
“Stop,” I whisper, as my fingers
snarl through the linens, as they part the covers from over my body. “Please.
Stop.”
“Sabrina?” my mother asks again.
“What’re you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, as my
feet slide off the edge of the bed. “It’s like… like I can’t control my body.”
“It’s controlling her,” my mother
says, as outside something begins to tap on the door. “Oh, God who is in
Heaven, please, hear me—”
The creature taps once more.
I move to stand.
My brother slides from bed and
takes hold of my arm—
But I shrug free.
Then, slowly, I start toward the
door.
I know I shouldn’t open the door.
I know I shouldn’t. But I want to.
Oh, yes. I want to—desperately at that. Like seeing an apple in a tree I want
to pluck it free: to taste its fruits, to feel its passions, to know its
secrets, to test its knowledge.
I start toward the door.
My mother runs forward and takes
hold of my arms.
“Mother,” I say.
Come to me, it whispers.
“Ignore it!” my mother says.
“Please, Sabrina! Ignore the beast!”
The doorknob begins to rattle.
My father moves toward the rifle.
“You can’t,” my mother says.
“Someone has to stand up for us,”
he replies.
“But if it knows—” she starts.
“We already know the Devil,” he
says.
The doorknob rattles once more.
My father settles his finger on
the trigger.
Sweat beads his brow. Fear curls
his lips. A pale breath rises from his mouth.
He lifts the gun, aims it at the
doorway, and fires.
The sardonic bay of something
that should not exist echoes into the house.
My father fires again.
The creature squeals like a dying
pig.
He shoots a third time.
And the wood begins to splinter.
My mother screams.
My father cries out.
My little brother shrinks back,
covering his eyes, his lips, his face.
And I, now able to break free
from my mother’s arms, do so.
A jagged crack appears in the
wood.
I see a sliver of flesh outside.
I smile.
My mother screams.
My father shouts.
The monster shrieks.
A gun is fired.
Blood sprays my face.
And though I want nothing more
than to be free, my tongue slicks out to taste its wants, its desires, its
utmost needs.
In moments, I reach out and open
the door.
“Hello,” I whisper.
The creature centers a beady
yellow eye on me.
I extend my arms just in time to
hear my mother scream.
Then it takes me into the night.